“Dear-a-me, you are a strange mon, parson. Between you an’ me and the post, I’ve no wish to go near the likes of her, as she has no pity on a poor starving woman.”
“As you have now promised me not to go near Mrs. Lloyd, just go into the kitchen and get some supper, and make haste home, for it is getting late.”
When Mrs. McGee left us, I also left to depart. On the ensuing afternoon I was informed, that before daylight next morning, Mr. Jones, before the family were up, had paid a visit to Mrs. Lloyd’s cow-house, and had given to each beast a small ball made up of herbs. When these were swallowed the cattle appeared scarcely able to contain themselves for delight. Mr. Jones saw by their appearance that his medicine (?) had proved successful; so calling up the family, he informed them that the spell was broken. The cows no longer refused to give milk, and Mrs. Lloyd even declared that it was superior in quality to what she previously had. Subsequently, she experienced no difficulty in her churning operations. The fame of Mr. Jones spread, in consequence, far and wide, and, unfortunately for his own peace and comfort, applications to him for assistance, when the witches had afflicted man or beast, became incessant.
PARSON JONES’S TALE OF NAT THE SMITH AND THE THREE WISHES.
It was a dreary night in the month of December when there sat in the chimney-corner of the Jolly Fiddler—which, as you know, is the chief public-house in the little village of Nantglyn—Nat the smith. Nat, as you are aware, is a real good fellow, and a hard-working man, but, unfortunately, he is terribly fond of his beer. I have been told that he has spent a little fortune at the Jolly Fiddler, and I can well believe it, for he pays nightly visits to the house, which he never leaves until he has had two quarts of ale; and I fear that latterly he has not confined himself to that quantity. However, I am anticipating this part of my story, and must first narrate, as succinctly as possible, the incidents of Nat’s life during the past seven years. Besides, I am anxious to finish telling you the story to-night, though I am not sure I can complete it, as there is a gap in the history of my friend Nat which has not yet been made up. With the above remarks by way of introduction, we will now go back to the dreary night of December already alluded to.
After Nat had sat for some time in the chimney-corner at the Jolly Fiddler, he called out to the landlord,—
“Another quart, Bill; and mind it’s from the barrel in the corner.”
“All right, Nat,” replied the landlord; “you shall ha’ a quart of the best.”
“Here’s the sixpence, Bill,” said Nat, when the ale was placed before him on the table; “and, upon my soul, I’ve not another copper left.”
“Never mind about the money, Nat; I’ll trust you for as much as you like to drink.”